Wicked Games
by righton.righton
Summary: It's that old story of girl meets girl, girl befriends girl on a bet, and then there's betrayal and heartache and tears. Dark AU.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Wicked Games

Rating: NC-17

Disclaimer: Not mine, just messing around.

A/N: This is gonna be a long, dark ride. An AU version of Jane and Maura, where they've gone down very different paths than the characters we know. You might not like this Jane, especially in the beginning, but that's ok. She hates herself too. Jane/Maura after a fashion, but not without a lot of bumps along the way. It's going to be messy, dirty, and very adult. Oh, and did I mention DARK? The broader plot lines come from Le Liaisons Dangereuses, but it's hardly a faithful adaptation. On with the show.

* * *

I really fucking hate this building. A meth addict could come up with a better design. The J. Edgar Hoover building, good old JEH to those of us stuck inside it, is a smack in the ass to common sense. From the outside it's just ugly as shit, a block of crumbling concrete taking up a city block. Inside it's a mess of windowless corridors that shoot out at odd angles, some running parallel, some leading only to dead ends, all looking exactly the fucking same. I've worked here for over three years now and I still rely on the mental crib sheet I made back in my first weeks – find elevator bank 4. Turn right. If you need to find somewhere else in the building, ignore it or make someone else do it.

No one expects me to make much of an effort, so it works out. I ended up here – excuse me, got "promoted" here – to keep me away from everyone else in the first place. Turns out when you're a hero cop who makes herself a hero by first being a dumbass and nearly getting herself killed, you get about two months leeway to be a crazy person before they find somewhere to shelve you. If I looked at my hands, which I don't, not ever, I'd see the marks on me that took my life, as sure as if he'd drawn the blade across my throat. My own Rizzoli stigmata, a martyr to my own fucked up feelings. Or the feelings I refuse to "process," according to the BPD shrink. One good thing about getting shipped off to FBI day camp is that I don't have to listen to that shit anymore.

I wear my gun and badge here because I can and because I feel strange without them, but they're basically fashion accessories. I sit at a desk with a wall I've made out of a giant white board to keep the other idiots caged up in 3D129 out of my face and write my reports like a good little girl. It fucking blows, but if they'd left me in Boston I'd probably have blown my brains out by now. Too many reminders. Too many people worrying over me, expecting things from me.

The only one here I really bother to talk to is Dean, and he knows exactly what to expect from me. He knows I could give a flying fuck about truth, justice and the American way and he doesn't disagree. Dean uses his job like a pick-ax, climbing up and over - not to get anywhere in particular, but because he likes shoving people out of the way. I get that.

Dean walks over to me, resting his arms on my whiteboard wall. "New coat of paint, Rizzoli? I like it," he says, gesturing down at the board. I've drawn a big fat X in black dry erase marker from one side of the 5-foot board to the other. Abandon hope all ye who enter here.

"Yeah, I used up a whole marker on it. Got a nice little high off the fumes, too." Not bad for a morning's work, if I do say so myself.

Dean smirks. "That's what I like to hear from my fellow fighters in the war on drugs."

I pantomime shoving coke up my nose, taking an exaggerated sniff. "Takes one to catch one." His eyes spark dangerously back at mine, enjoying the game. I know he indulges in misplaced evidence, and he knows I know. Just like he knows that I fuck chicks, and I know that he knows. One shouldn't weigh as heavily as the other, it's 2012 and lesbian cops are a dime a dozen, but I'm a fucked up closet case so we have our mutually assured destruction all worked out.

Besides, I'm not even sure if I like chicks or if I just like taking, using. The women I fuck let me fuck them, let me do whatever I want with them. I get a sick little thrill when they surrender completely, when they become mine. I don't ask for anything in return, and I sure as hell don't let them touch me. It doesn't make me an upstanding citizen but it gets me off in my own way, keeps me from making real trouble. The only complaints I get are when I shove them off on their merry way. A couple of the crazier, needier ones have gotten attached and tried to hang onto me. Can't blame 'em, I guess, I can be quite the charmer. I'll say what I need to say, be who I need to be, until I get what I want. What I need. Then I'm just an asshole again.

If I could do that to a man, if I could find one that'd let me stick my dick in him and own him for a few hours, I'd do it. But it's just so goddamn easy to find women who beg for it. I don't feel sorry for fucking them over when they wear their hearts on their sleeves, dangling their vulnerability out for me to grab.

That's why Dean and I never fuck. He'd like to, of course, but we both want the same things and neither of us could ever give it up, submit to the other. We're not friends, Dean and I. But we're not enemies, either. Kindred spirits, maybe.

Dean leans in closer, angling his body up and over the whiteboard to stare down on me. "Word is the Baltimore field office has a takedown scheduled for this afternoon. Obviously, someone from the headquarters drug team should be there to oversee. Want to tag along?"

I lean back as far as my crappy ass desk chair will let me and prop my boots up on the edge of my desk. "You know that ain't my style Dean. Besides, if you go, it's your paperwork. You fucked me over with that trick once, you won't get me again." His eyes are stroking down the length of my legs and I stretch back just a bit further. It's like dangling a fucking string in front of a cat.

He whispers down at me, his voice low and dark. "Fine, Rizzoli, your loss. The new agent on the Baltimore task force sounds perfect for you. Young and stupid, with a huge set of jugs. "

I let out a snort of annoyance. "Like I need to shit where I eat, Dean. There's plenty just like her out on the open market."

"Just looking out for you, buddy. If you don't want to keep her warm at night, I will." He's backing away slowly, our conversation not explicitly concluded before he smoothly moves onto the desk across from mine, schmoozing with Agent Killjoy or whoever it is that sits there. I'm pretty sure I'm the only one here who knows what a sick fuck Dean really is, he's a master at laying it on thick with everyone else.

He's right about my type, though. Dumb, stupid, and stacked up to heaven. A dime a dozen, and after eleven on the weekends they're tipsy and even dumber. Of course, today is Tuesday, which makes hunting a little bit harder. I might have to exert a little effort if I want to get laid tonight, strike up a conversation, act like I give a shit for an hour or so. Or I could just watch TV in my apartment. Some team somewhere must be playing some kind of sport involving a ball.

My computer, with my lame-ass half finished sit rep, has locked itself. Fuck this. No one cares if I write this shit or not. I bet someone has 'make up crap for Jane to do so she thinks she has a job here' as part of their job description. I grab my gym bag from under my desk and head to the third floor basement, where the bureau has what passes for a gym. The equipment is at least as old as I am but weights are weights, there's really not a lot to it. As usual, I'm the only woman in the 'big boy' room with the free weights, but I'm here often enough that no one is surprised to see a vagina walk in. I bench as much as most of them and they know by now that I don't want a fucking spotter. I don't need someone to stand by waiting to save me while they try to look between my gym shorts.

I pull myself up over the chin-up bar, feeling my crossed legs hang below me and watching the smooth muscles in my arms bulge. I pull up again, and again, until the sweat begins to form on my forehead, my back, under my breasts. I don't count, I never count. I pull up until my vision starts to blur and whirl and then I let myself drop. This, this works. This makes me feel whole. Bent over at the waist to catch my breath, I see a dusty pair of Saucony's directly behind me.

"Hello Jane." His voice has a lilt to it I've never been able to place – England? Australia? Whatever.

"Hey Ian." I straighten back up and turn to look him in the eye. "Shouldn't you be putting the bad guys in jail instead of staring at my ass?" Ian is an FBI lawyer, and the world's biggest bleeding heart. I've heard him say that he went to law school to save lives and make the world a better place. And he really believes that shit.

He shrugs, either unaware of my sarcasm or choosing to ignore it. I've never figured out which. "Slow case load this week. And I've got to stay in shape, I'm not as young as I used to be." Ian's wearing what looks like a British schoolboy's gym clothes. I look like I belong in the big boy gym way more than this fucker does.

"Treadmills and sissy weights are in the next room, Faulkner. You here to lift or talk?" He raises an eyebrow at me, bemused.

"Can't one do both?"

I'm already halfway to the weight rack. "Not with me, no." I rack 200 pounds and step into dead lift stance, my muscles clenching preemptively.

He must realize he's been dismissed because I see his Saucony's walking out the door as I lift the bar over my head. My muscles sing in sweet agony. I lift until my arms and legs are shaking and my eyes are stinging from my sweat. And I can finally feel nothing. My favorite of all the feelings.

I wipe my dripping face off and step out of JEH into blistering DC heat. It's only fucking May and this damn town is already a sauna. Oh joy. The humid air presses down on me harder than the dumbbell I had on my shoulders minutes ago, and I tuck my head down and push my way along the sidewalk. The metro is crowded with assholes like always, and since it's officially tourist season there's hoards of school kids travelling clustered in packs. Even though the train car is stuffed my gym sweat stench gets me an extra few inches of personal space. Fifteen minutes of teenagers yelling to each other and an old lady glaring at me for polluting her airspace and I'm across the river.

The lock tumbles into place with a click and the cool air-conditioned breeze welcomes me home. Thank fuck. I don't so much drop my bag as let it fall off me. I let myself collapse onto the one real piece of furniture in this place, the couch I brought with me from Boston. It's old and starting to rip but it's leather, and no fucking way was I giving it to one of my loser brothers. Well, Frankie's not a loser, he's just annoying. But still. My fucking couch.

I left the rest of my shit back in Boston. Pictures, plates, all of it. My place here is white walls and gray carpet, just the way I want it. I don't even have a real bed, just a mattress on the floor, but that's fine 'cause I don't fuck people here. No way I want those skanks to know where I live.

The couch creaks below me and I slip down into it further, closing my eyes for a moment. The air conditioner hums and I can hear the faint electronic pulse of the ceiling lights, but otherwise all is silence.

My hand moves down between my legs. The liner of my gym shorts is damp with sweat, and when I push against myself it's wet there too. I brush the back of my knuckles hard against myself, the calloused roughness sharp against my clit. My breath comes shorter as I grind my hips and oh, it's so close, I can feel my release so close. I'm muttering out loud to myself and pushing harder, desperate to just come apart. It feels like fucking ages of climbing up a hill that keeps rising ahead of me, trying in vain to throw myself over. Fuck. I pull my hand out and slump forward in frustration; I'm not getting off tonight. I'm sweat and failure and boredom, and I'm alone.

* * *

A/N: I did say it was dark, twice. You were warned! In the next chapter, Jane meets Maura.

A million thanks to Conoro28 for the beta. All mistakes are mine.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 – You're So Tragedy

A/N: See chapter 1 for disclaimers and notes. Sex comes later, but for now there's lots of swearing and taking the lord's name in vain.

* * *

I'm only at my desk a few minutes before Dean leans over my shoulder. Fuck my life.

"Burning the mid-day oil Rizzoli?" Fucking sarcastic asshole.

I don't bother glancing up from my screen. "Are you questioning my work schedule, Agent Dean? Would you like to launch an IG investigation?"

He snorts. "The Inspector General can go fuck himself. By all means, Rizzoli, waste as much taxpayer money as you can. But I've been waiting for you to get here. There's something you're going to want to see."

I stare straight ahead, pretending to be absorbed in my report. "Another picture of your dick? Oh wait, that's right, it's too small to show up on film." I tilt my head just so, working that coquettish angle that drives Dean crazy.

He shoves a raised middle finger at my face but his smirk doesn't waver. "No, it's the new chick. She's like a little kewpie doll, you've gotta see it."

Oh great, another bimbo for Dean to fuck. "They got a new admin to replace the last one you broke?" I ask. Dean's string of conquests has kept our squad secretary-free for the past month. At least I won't have to do a shit ton of extra paper work while the new one lasts.

"Nah, she's some kind of doctor. She does freaky genetic coding shit. They've got her in DC for a few months to track where the junk from our major cases comes from."

Well that sounds like a colossal waste of time. "Gee, I hope her samples don't cut into your supply. So where's the doctor-doll at?"

"Boss Man's supposed to bring her around to meet the force at 10." I glance at my clock; it's 9:59. "So get ready to meet FBI Barbie in 3, 2, 1..."

Dean trails off and I see her come out of Boss Man's office. She's...is she actually giggling? She's either flirting, sucking up or just an idiot, because Boss Man is not funny. Not even a little bit. She turns her head to respond to something he's said and golden blonde curls out of a shampoo commercial bounce around her shoulders. They're walking closer now and I get a good, long look at her. Fuck me, she really is a doll. She's all wide eyes and white skin and soft curves. Her dress is pale pink and honest to god, she has fucking frilly sleeves. They're ruffled like those ankle socks Ma used to make me wear as a kid. You have got to be fucking kidding me.

I glance back at Dean and he's staring her down, a wolf enjoying the view of its prey. The girl is hair-bouncing her way down the aisle of cubicles with Boss Man, shaking hands and small talking. Her giggles and perfume in the air are hypnotic. She has no idea what she's walking into.

Dean's whisper is low, menacing. "Wait till she turns around. She's got an ass like a Playboy bunny."

She walks closer to us, and I catch her gaze and hold it as she enters my space. Her smile falters a bit and I can see her swallow, hard. The bunny has realized the wolves are near. Good.

Boss Man takes the lead and steers her in. "Rizzoli, Dean. Meet Dr. Maura Isles, head of the genomics research lab at Harvard." Shit, Dr. Bunny is from Boston? "Dr. Isles is here for the next four months advising the drug team on new forensic methods. She'll also be helping out the lab at Quantico." Boss Man claps a hand over Dean's shoulder. "Now play nice, kids."

The doc leans forward, angling herself into my cube to shake my hand. "It's nice to meet you, Agent Rizzoli. I look forward to working with you." Her lean puts an ample amount of boob in my face. It is not a horrible view.

Her palm is sweaty in mine. I flash my biggest, toothiest smile and her face visibly relaxes. "Back atcha. It's going to be a super fun summer!" My voice is dripping with sarcasm, because, yeah, I'm an asshole.

Except she doesn't look wounded, or scared, or even confused. "Yes, I think it will be! I've been hoping to put my research to practical effect for several years now, this is very exciting!" She's beaming, and still clasping my hand. What the fuck, aren't people from Harvard supposed to be smart?

Dean is coughing to cover his laughter. Boss Man pulls the girl away from me with a warning glare and Dean gives her his best, Upstanding FBI Agent smile and handshake. Fucking suck up.

The pair moves away from us, and when they're safely out of earshot I ask the obvious question. "What the fuck was that? Was she playing with me, or is she actually that fucking dense?"

Dean laughs. "You should've seen your face. Classic." He pauses, considering. "I don't think she was playing with you. She's just very..." He trails off, his smile widening like the creepy bastard he is. "Very, very trusting. I think you were right, this is going to be a super fun summer." He mimics my cheerleader tone and twirls a finger through the air.

* * *

I'm eating my lunch at one of the picnic tables on the tiny deck off the cafeteria. In yet another baffling design move, the cafeteria is on the eighth floor. Oh, and only half the elevators go past the seventh floor. I didn't find the damn thing for my first three months here. It's hotter than hell, of course, but since nobody else is suicidal enough to roast themselves out here I have it to myself.

Until Dean drops his ass on the bench, inches from me. Even though there's nothing but space around us. Right, there is another crazy fucker in this building.

"So. Bets on how fast I get the Doctor into bed." He pulls his sandwich out of his lunch bag and it's turkey on wheat, just like it fucking always is.

I consider her trusting, open face. "Too easy, she'll probably believe every bullshit word out of your mouth." She'll eat up Dean's Prince Charming bullshit with a spoon.

He shrugs, finishing a bite. "Let's make it interesting, then. I'll fuck her up the ass before she goes back to Boston."

Now that is more interesting. "Okay, but that's still too easy. You get two months." She's bizarrely gullible, sure, but she looks way too precious to ever take it up the ass. Even though that image is strangely appealing.

"Deal. Terms?"

We may as well be discussing a used care sale. I put my yogurt down and turn my head to meet his eyes. "If you can't close the deal, with video to prove it, I get your bike."

His eyes flare, momentarily taken aback. He fucking loves that motorcycle. "Fine. But if I win, I get to fuck you. However I want." His tone is flat, his gaze hard and unwavering. I make a mental calculation of my odds on this, and how gross it would be to be Dean's bitch for a night. There are worse things I can imagine. Even from beneath him I could make him squirm like a girl. I've got mad skills.

I nod my head and extend my hand. "Deal. But I want your parking space too."

He grins and we shake on it. "No cheating, Rizzoli. You're not allowed to tell her I'm an asshole."

"Oh, I'm sure she'll figure that out on her own soon enough." I'm all talk and we both know it. Wiser women than this one have been fooled by him. It's the fear of butt sex that gives me the edge on this bet.

The balcony door opens and a chirpy voice startles me. I spin around and no, it can't be, how did she even fucking find this place?

"Hello! Agent Rizzoli, Agent Dean. I'm so glad you're here! I was worried I'd be too late, my video conference with Quantico ran long." I give Dean my best what the fuck glare, and he smirks knowingly.

She glides over to the bench across the table and sets down her lunch. Which, of course, is a salad. She's probably a fucking vegetarian who lives off of lettuce leaves and Perrier. I take a passive aggressive bite of my roast beef sandwich.

"Please, Dr. Isles, call me Gabriel. I'm so glad you could join us." She blushes and ducks her chin. Fuck, he's already started.

"Then you must call me Maura. I can't tell you how much I appreciate you both being so welcoming. I'm afraid I'm not very good company, I don't tend to have many friends."

My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. The fuck, she thinks a lunch invite means we're friends? And unless she recently lost a hundred pounds and had one of those extreme makeover things, how is it possible horny men don't surround her all the fucking time?

I clear my throat and ask my other, less rude question. "So, Maura, did you have any trouble finding us up here?" I offer her my best aww shucks grin and singsong tone. "This building can be pretty confusing."

She smiles back at me, and damn, this woman really has no bullshit meter. "Gabriel gave me excellent directions. This building is a fascinating example of Brutalist architecture, don't you think? It was designed to represent a central core of files, an apt visual pun for such a paper driven agency. The concrete material was both an economic concession and an echo of current design aesthetics, but of course it has failed to age as well as traditional marble and granite government buildings. And then there are the difficulties in maintaining large concrete structures such as this, necessitating the debris nets around the top floors."

Oh. Now I get why she doesn't have friends.

"That's fascinating, Maura. You know I've worked here for years and never considered the architecture?" Dean is laying it on thick and she's loving it. Probably amazed that someone finds her textbook talk bearable. "What did you say the style was, Brutalist?"

"Yes! It's a style that began in the 1950's with the Swiss architect Le Corbusier. The term comes from the French beton brut, meaning raw concrete. Brutalism is a philosophy as well as an architecture. Its proponents saw it as representative of a Socialist utopia, protective and integrating." She's beaming, and as much as I want to smack her it's also kind of cute. Huh.

"Protective and integrating, really? And here I've been thinking it's just butt ugly."

Dean waves me off and leans over the table, putting as little space between him and Maura as possible. "Don't mind Jane here. She's just likes to stir up trouble. Now tell me, where did you learn so much about architecture?"

She babbles on about her favorite book on post-war architecture or some shit and Dean's doing a very convincing imitation of someone who understands whatever the fuck it is she's saying. Maura's clearly buying it, her face is lit up like a Christmas tree. Jesus Christ. Dean's going to be in her pants – excuse me, up her frilly little dress – by the end of the week at this rate. I'm not allowed to trash talk him but there are other ways to cock block.

"Maura, tell us about yourself." Like hijacking their conversation for one. "What's your life story?" Dean's not the only one who knows how to be charming. I lean forward on my elbows, mirroring his stance.

"Oh! Well, it's not much of a story." She's giggling a little again. Probably wondering what alternate universe she's landed in where people are talking to her for more than five minutes. "Let's see. I'm originally from Boston, but I spent most of my childhood abroad. Mainly in France, though I spent several years in England for graduate studies. It's been a bit of a culture shock being back in the states these past few years!"

It's dawning on me that this woman can't be more than a day over 30, and she's a Ph.D. running a Harvard lab. Shit, this is serious child prodigy stuff. No wonder she's a little...off.

Dean breaks back in. "I miss Europe as well. My family has a cottage in the Cotswold's, but it's been years since I've had time to visit." What the fuck? I look at him to see if he's lying out his ass but he gives nothing away. I guess he could be from money. I'd always figured shit like his hundred thousand dollar chopper came from being a crooked cop, but maybe he's just a poor little rich boy after all.

"My family has a cottage there too! I wonder if our parents know each other?"

Dean grins amiably as if this is the most wonderful coincidence ever. Which, what do I know, maybe it is. "Who knows, we may have played together as children. I'm told I used to chase the neighborhood girls around the fields, trying to steal a kiss." Fucking gag me.

"I'm afraid I was a very shy child," Maura answers him apologetically. "I spent most of my time inside with a book."

I nod sagely. "I was a bookworm as a kid too. My parents used to catch me reading under the covers with a flashlight." Now it's Dean turn to give me a what the fuck look, but I'm actually not lying. I did spend most of my childhood nights reading whatever I could get my hands on. It was just the days I spent outside, playing every sport you can play in a Boston street. I have a card to play here with our shared Boston heritage, but I decide to hold it in check. I'm betting her side of Boston looked pretty different from mine anyway.

Maura looks pleasantly surprised. Well, I'm full of surprises. "What sort of reading do your prefer, Jane? I'm drawn mostly to non-fiction, although lately I've endeavored to fill the classical fiction gaps in my repertoire. I'm ashamed to say I'd never read Moby Dick until last night."

Fuck, does she mean she read fucking Moby Dick in one night? She has a repertoire? Shit, now I have to tell her something about what I'm reading without coming across as a complete idiot. "Well, let's see, I read a lot of, uh, memoirs." No need to tell her I haven't read anything besides a porn mag in a month. "I enjoy, uh, learning about people's experiences that are different from mine." Smooth Rizzoli, real smooth.

But she seems to buy it. "I agree. There's such a vast array of human experiences. We share so many biological similarities, but inhabit completely different realities." She takes a delicate bite of her salad, which sits almost untouched.

My mind races for an educated-sounding response but Dean beats me to it. "Well I know my reality is better now that you're here, Maura. Can I take you out for a cup of coffee after work today?" God damn that boy is cheesy.

Maura shakes her head, looking genuinely disappointed. "Thank you for the invitation, but I desperately need to organize my apartment tonight. My things arrived yesterday and it's a horrible mess."

"Of course, I understand. Another time," Dean replies casually.

Well at least he won't have any time alone with her tonight, that's a point in my column. "Where are you staying?" I ask her, genuinely curious.

"I've taken an apartment in Georgetown. It's lovely but the traffic this morning was awful, perhaps I should have chosen something closer to the office."

I see an opening, and I take it. "Tell you what, let me drive you home. When I'm in my duty car with my badge, I get to break any traffic law I want. Guarantee I'll have you home in no time." Okay, so it's not technically 'my' undercover car, but I can take one from the fleet whenever I want.

She hesitates a moment, and maybe she's not as trusting as we first thought because she looks nervous. Her parents probably warned her about getting in cars with strangers. But it clears quickly and she's smiling that big goofy smile at me again. "Thank you, you're both so kind! Will it be all right to leave my car here overnight? Oh, and how will I get back in the morning?"

I can almost hear Dean's teeth grinding beside me. "Don't worry." My voice is calm, a fucking paradigm of safety and security. "I'll take care of everything."

* * *

A/N: So, yes, darkness abounds. We're bump bump bumping down the road now, so hang on tight. I know this story won't be everyone's cuppa tea, but any and all comments are appreciated. Big ups to Conoro28 for the beta, woot woot!


	3. Future Foe Scenarios

Chapter 3 – Future Foe Scenarios

A/N: See chapter 1 for disclaimers and notes.

When I volunteered to drive genius girl home, it didn't occur to me that people like her have, you know, a fucking work ethic. But it looks like Maura isn't just smart - she's a fucking workaholic. Who the hell stays till eight o'clock on their first day? Friggin crazy people, that's who.

After several hours of alternating between minesweeper, solitaire, and trips to the vending machine I can't take it anymore. I go to yank Maura out of her cube, by brute force if necessary. They've got her set up in a corner of the office that used to hold printer paper, crates full of sugar packets, and powdered creamer. They've literally shoved her into a dark corner and she doesn't have the common sense to be pissed off. She's been curled up in there for fucking hours now, staring at whatever the hell is on her computer screen like it's a message from god.

I'm supposed to be making friends or whatever, but this is fucking ridiculous. "C'mon Doc, time to go home."

She jumps in her chair and squeaks. Fucking squeaks. "Oh, Jane, you startled me!"

I'm trying really, really hard not to roll my eyes. Maura puts a hand over her heart and rearranges her legs, which are tucked up underneath her. I spot her heels kicked over to the side of the desk and let my eyes trail over creamy, bare knees. Nice. "Sorry about that. But it's getting pretty late, you about ready to go?"

She gazes longingly at her screen, which is covered in some ridiculously complex chart, and gives a sad little sigh. "I suppose the baseline optimization will still be here in the morning." She glances at her watch and frowns. "Oh, it is late! I'm so sorry Jane, I was just absorbed in this calibration process and I must have lost track of time!" She pops up out of her chair and grabs for her heels, giving me a chance to ogle her perfect little ass. Fuck if I'm letting Dean get a piece of that.

I used the last few hours to eat skittles and plot my strategy. I've considered the obvious approach of just fucking her myself. Sure, she's probably as straight as a highway median, but that's easily fixed. Tempting as it is, it's just too fucking risky. Shit like that has a way of spreading around an office like the flu, and I cannot fucking let that happen. I'm already the psycho killer's victim who lost her mind, no fucking way I'm gonna be the office dyke too.

I step in close to give her a steadying arm while she fusses around with her crazy ass shoes. So what if I'm not going to fuck her. I'm going to be her new best friend, and best friends can touch, right? I give her my most winning, dutiful public servant gaze. "Don't worry about it. I had a lot of work to do tonight too. "

With her shoes back on we're nearly at eye level, and she smiles at me as I take my hand off her shoulder. "Thanks again for offering to drive me home. I hope it isn't too far out of your way?"

I wave her off even though fuck yes, it's seriously far out of my way. It's also so late that she could get home just as fast in her own car, but neither of these are things she needs to know. "Nah, don't worry about it. It'll be nice to have the company, I tend to be a loner."

She looks quizzically over her shoulder at me as she shuts down her computer. "Really? But you're so friendly!"

I have to bite the inside of my cheek so I don't fucking laugh in her face. "Yeah, well, I'm just so invested in the job, you know? Makes it hard to find time for friends." I guide her towards the door, because if I have to spend five more minutes 'investing' in this job tonight I'm gonna break something.

"I understand. I have the same problem. Well that, and when people get to know me, they tend to avoid me." Her voice is quiet, and even though she's ahead of me I can see her head drop a bit. This girl is so fucking vulnerable I want to throttle her.

Instead I open the door and hold my arm out in a gallant, sweeping motion. "I don't buy that. How could anyone not want to spend time with someone as interesting as you?"

Maura smiles happily and steps out into the hall. This is almost too fucking easy.

I take her down to the second deck of the parking garage. I reserved the unmarked after lunch, which at this point was for-freaking-ever ago. I still can't believe I'm at work this fucking late, I haven't pulled a shift like this since fucking Boston. I pop the doors open and adjust the seat. I don't know who the fuck the bureau thinks they're fooling with these. No one else in their right mind would drive a giant white boat like this piece of shit.

"So, where to?" I ask and she prattles off an address that screams money. I know without ever seeing it that this is no 'apartment.' That part of town doesn't have apartments, it has frigging historical estates. Fuck me. I steer us out of the garage and out into the streets, which are nearly empty in downtown at this time of night. She's prattling on about something to do with covariance or some other math shit and doesn't seem to notice. I guess she's like a selective genius. Smart about the boring stuff, stupid about everything else.

It's barely ten minutes before I'm pulling up on her 'apartment' and this whole elaborate bullshit about driving her home should be blatantly obvious by now, but she doesn't seem to have a clue. Her place isn't some turreted mansion or anything, thank fuck. Just your standard Georgetown colonial row house. Probably smells like dead people from the Civil War and costs fucking millions.

Maura finishes up her lecture on correlation coefficients that I'm listening to with about one percent of my brain and resumes her fawning gratitude for my chivalry. "Honestly, I can't thank you enough. Oh Jane, I know you'll think it's silly, but this has just been the most wonderful day for me!"

Fucking pathetic is what I'm actually thinking, but close enough. "Really, it was my pleasure. What time should I come back for you tomorrow?"

A worried expression crosses her face and she bites her bottom lip. "I'd forgotten about that. It's already so late it hardly seems fair to send you home just to have you come all the way back tomorrow. I have a guest room, if you'd like to just spend the night?" She laughs at herself, clearly nervous. "Oh what am I saying, you barely know me and surely you want to get home. I'll take a cab in tomorrow morning. Forget I said anything."

Maura's face is flushed beet red and she's halfway out the door before I can stop her with a hand on her elbow. "Maura, wait! That sounds really nice. Staying over and all. It'll be a sleepover, like when we were kids." I'm pretty sure most kids sleepovers don't involve fucked up bets on anal sex, but what the fuck ever.

Her face lights up and she smiles widely at me, her huge hazel eyes glistening. Fuck, is she going to cry? "I...I've never been to a sleepover before."

I put a hand on her arm gently to try and calm her the fuck down. "I thought you went to boarding school, isn't that like one giant sleepover?"

She's sniffling a bit, but I think she's going to hold it together. "Mother and father always paid for me to have my own room so I wouldn't be distracted from my studies."

Fuck that's grim. Maura's enthusiasm is fading into melancholy, so I get us back on track. "Then tonight you're going to a sleepover. We'll eat raw cookie dough, braid each other's hair, the works."

That should've worked, but now she just looks confused. "Jane, we can't eat raw cookie dough. The commercial egg supply is relatively safe from salmonella now, but the risk is still far too high."

Fuck this is going to be a long night.

* * *

It takes almost forty-five fucking minutes to convince Maura that sleepovers require the wearing of pajamas and that eating raw cookie dough made with absolutely no fucking eggs is perfectly safe. I walked to her corner market for white flour and chocolate chips, cause eggs or no eggs, I'm not eating a bowl of high fiber paste made with her stone ground whatever flour. She's curled up on the couch now with the bowl in her hands, a scared rabbit grin on her face like this is the naughtiest thing she's ever done. Shit, it probably is.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," she says around a dainty mouthful of cookie dough. "All of the butter in this is going to go straight to my hips. And my apartment is such a mess, I should be cleaning up!"

I plop down beside her. Shit this couch is comfortable, it's like a doublewide or something. I could swim in it. "Maura, for the tenth time, your place looks fine," I tell her. One thing out of my mouth tonight that's not bullshit. Her house – not a fucking apartment like she keeps on calling it – is basically immaculate. There's like, two boxes sitting in a corner. Whoever she's renting from has it done up nice, warm deeply colored paint and big soft furniture, fluffy area rugs dotting the creaky old floors. "And as for your hips-" I reach over like I'm about to pinch her and she giggles and squirms further into the corner. "They look just fine to me."

Dean's gonna shit a brick when I tell him about this tomorrow. Technically, I've already gotten into Maura's pants. I'm wearing some stretchy drawstring shit she calls pajamas. They're loose on my waist but only go down to my mid-calf so I look like a fucking dork.

"Are you sure we can't make a salad? This is not a balanced meal." For all her protesting about the damn cookie dough she's wolfing down a hell of a lot of it.

I shake my head and stick my hand out for the bowl. "Nope. Against sleepover rules. Only junk food allowed."

She hands over the bowl and wraps herself in a fake fur throw from the back of the sofa, ruining my view of her tits in her little camisole. Too bad. "Okay. So what do we do next?"

That's a fucking good question. Usually at this stage in a con I'd be shoving a hand down her pants, but that's out. Playing it nice for this long is fucking annoying. "A movie. Next we watch a movie. As girly as possible." I am just determined to torture myself tonight, apparently.

"That sounds like fun! I think I have cable here." She's pops up off the couch to get the remote for the comically large plasma that's hanging over the fireplace.

No fucking duh, this place comes with cable. There's probably a cook and a butler hiding in some backroom too. Maura gets the TV turned on and of course there's a zillion fucking channels. Since Maura has, predictably, never seen a fucking movie that wasn't in French or somehow educational, the field is wide open. I cue up Pretty in Pink and hope she can keep her pretty little mouth shut for the next hour and a half.

She doesn't make it more than ten minutes.

"Oh, I think I see. Andie is from a lower social standing than Blane, causing their nascent romance and attraction to violate the established social order. It's a play on a very old theme. Do you see the similarities to Jane Eyre? I wonder if the-"

Fuck, does she come with an off switch? "Say, Maura, you know what would make this sleepover super fun?"

She's caught between clearly wanting to finish her critique, trying to watch Duckie and Andie bicker on the screen, and looking wonderingly at me. "You said before we would braid each others hair, is this the point in the evening where we do that?"

"No. Do you have anything to drink?" No way I'm making it through this night sober.

"Oh, of course! I'm so sorry, where are my manners? I have sparkling and still water, a very refreshing raspberry tea, or I can make some coffee-"

Screw subtlety. "Alcohol, Maura. Do you have anything alcoholic?"

She blushes, a flush of pink warming her face. "Right. I think the landlord left a few bottles of wine, let me go check." Teenage explorations of socially normative behavior play on as she goes and opens a small wine fridge hidden under the kitchen island. "Oooh, there's a nice Torrentes here. Do you like Argentinean wine?"

I like beer, vodka, and whatever else gets me drunk. "Sure, thanks." I watch from over the couch as she takes out a bottle opener and a single wine glass. "Nuh uh Maura. You have to drink it with me." She'll probably only be more annoying drunk, but I want to see it anyway.

She looks unsure, glancing between the bottle in her hands and me. "But Jane, we have work tomorrow."

"Just one glass. C'mon, live a little." I'm ready to convince her this is a new sleepover rule, - cause girl clearly lives for rules - but she relents and brings a second glass with her back to the couch.

Rich people wine is actually pretty good and it dulls my annoyance of her endless commentary. The commentary that keeps getting punctuated with more and more giggling and slurring as I keep surreptitiously refilling her glass.

"They're going to kiss! Jane, Andie is accepting the possibility of their compatibility, despite the societal obstacles, and she's going to kiss him!" Maura's so excited she's almost jumping out of her seat, and she sloshes the last bit of wine from her glass down her boobs. "Oh, It's so romantic!"

Okay, she's actually kind of a cute drunk. The wine down her cleavage doesn't suck either. "Yes, its very romantic. Wait till you see Say Anything, I bet you'll swoon."

She's buzzing enough now that she doesn't even protest when I turn on another movie, even thought it's 'late' on a 'work night.' I'm not surprised when her head starts drooping against the couch before Lloyd Dobler even gets his stalk on. I quietly get up to turn the lights off and cover her with the fuzzy fur blanket. Her rosy lips are parted slightly, and she gives a soft little snuffling sound and snuggles deeper into the couch.

Befriending Maura is like taking candy from a fucking baby. I settle into the other end of the football-field sized couch and will myself to fall asleep. I almost jump out my fucking skin when I feel sock-clad feet brush against my own. Maura has uncurled from her sleeping pose and stretched herself out along the couch. She scooches further and her legs entangle with mine.

I hold my breath, but she doesn't wake up. I almost feel a little bad for her, she's just so fucking easy to manipulate. She's the kind of person I would have wanted to protect, in another life. When I used to give a shit about people. But where did that get me? Everyone fucks everyone over in the end. Someone's bound to take away her fucking Pollyanna innocence, it might as well be me.

I keep telling myself that as I count the beams in Maura's ceiling.

A/N: I promise we'll get to a happier, sexier place. Just gonna take a while. :) Thanks to Conoro28 for another excellent beta. And thanks to everyone who has reviewed/commented. I want to be cool enough that such things don't matter to me, but since I'm actually just a big ball of insecurities hearing from you helps a lot.


	4. Hold Me Up

Chapter 4 – Hold Me Up

**See chapter one for disclaimers and notes. For this chapter in particular – trigger warnings for any and all types of PTSD. Please don't read if this may be upsetting to you. Thanks to Conoro28 for the beta.**

"Aaaah – AH! Jane, help!" Maura's voice is desperate and pained, and she's a fucking block of dead weight in my arms.

"Come on, you can do it. Focus and push it." I've got my hands tightly on her hips, holding her body in the air at the pull-up bar. After boosting her up and over the bar I'd intended to let the fuck go, but she came crashing down so fast I had to either hold on or let her take a dive. She's not holding any of her own fucking weight, so I'm basically holding her up in mid-air like she's a fucking ballerina.

Maura makes a sound between a grunt and a moan as she tries again, her body rising infinitesimally upward for about a half second. "I'm sorry, I can't do it." I lower her back down to the floor mats and she bends at the waist, panting. She didn't do one fucking pull-up and she's panting. "I'm just not strong enough. Is there something easier we can try?"

God, I hate girly workouts. They're just so pointless and boring, with the fucking pink and purple teensy little hand weights. Gag me. "Sure, we can work up to it. Can you do push-ups?" This was a huge fucking mistake, bringing her to the gym. I do not talk to people in the gym. I definitely do not handhold pretty little weaklings in the gym. Befriending Maura is causing me to break way too many rules.

"I think so. At least a few. A lot, if I do the half ones on my knees."

Fucking girl push-ups. Of course. "Alright, let's try a few real ones with good form. Come down here on the mat." I guess there are worse things than Maura Isles on her hands and knees in those tight little running shorts. There is a whole fucking lot of leg on display. I can't tell if she's completely oblivious to the effect her body has on people or just doesn't care. It doesn't seem possible that anyone could be that fucking dense, or wear crazy four-inch heels for fun, but there's something about Maura...

I move her limbs around until she's in a good plank pose and place a hand on her lower back to keep her straight. "Now lower down. That's it. Further, all the way down. Good, now bring it back up." The guys in the gym are looking at me like I've lost my fucking mind. Screw 'em. They probably just wish it were one of their hands centimeters from Maura's ass.

Maura does four real push-ups before her body starts fighting me, her back arching against my hand and her chin grazing the mat. "Give me six more. You can do ten." I say it gently because I'm being nice to her, because that's the game we're playing here, but she's the one who wanted to work out. She can at least do ten fucking push-ups.

She's been asking me to take her to the gym for days. After our 'sleepover' went so well, she's been trailing after me like a puppy desperate for attention. This has had the added benefit of driving Dean fucking nuts.

She asked if I would show her how to work out like me, like she's my fucking little sister or something. Oh Jane, your so triceps are so toned. Oh Jane, your rectus abdominis is so well defined. Fuckin' right I'm ripped, and it's not from doing ten lousy push-ups.

"Te-ee-en." Maura counts out her last one, which shouldn't really count cause she only went halfway down, but what the fuck ever. Breathing a sigh of relief, she collapses down onto the mat and rolls over to face me. "Wow, that was hard. I don't think I've ever done push-ups like that before." She laughs at herself a bit and hides her flushed face with her hands. "You must think I'm really weak. I guess I am."

Good think I'm such a great fucking liar. "Don't be so hard on yourself, you're just new at this. It's like anything else, you practice and you get better." I'm crouched down beside her and she's lying there, breasts heaving against her tank top. I can't keep my mind from going where it wants to go, because there are so many better things I could be doing from this position. Fuck, I really need to get laid.

I give her my hand and help pull her back upright, and she smiles at me appreciatively. "I really do want to get better at this. My normal exercise routine consists of aerobic activity, primarily running and dance. I've never worked on core strength, but I find your muscle mass quite inspirational." She gives a little hop of excitement and oh my god, she's so fucking cute I want to stab myself. "Think you can toughen me up, Agent Rizzoli?" she says in a fake low voice that's about as tough as a kitten trying to growl.

"Yeah, we can toughen you up. If you really work at it, leave it all on the mat." Or, you know, keep hanging around sickos like Dean and me. Except our fuckery isn't going to give her muscle mass. "Let's work on your legs a bit. You've probably never squatted with weights before, right? Come over here and watch me."

I normally squat two hundred, but I rack a buck fifty to make her feel a little less pathetic. Settling the bar onto my shoulders I look up at her to make sure she's watching. "This is the most important part, when you lift the bar off the stand. Use your core to keep it balanced over you." I do just that without so much as a tremble, cause I'm a fucking badass. Maura watches me with rapt attention. I sink down low and come back up, and repeat a few times to let her get a handle on it. This fucking pussy weight doesn't hurt a bit, which ruins the whole point of lifting if you ask me.

Maura seems impressed though and she's looking at me like I'm some kind of fucking superhero. I slide the bar back onto the stand and step out. Her eyes are bright and glowing, excitement rippling off her. "You make that look so easy! How much weight do you think I can do?"

"Let's try with twenty. That plus the bar is fifty total." She looks a little disappointed but nods in agreement. I rack it for her and let her settle herself under the bar, a look of determination on her face. She pushes off and promptly starts careening about like the town drunk. Fuck.

She's stepping backwards and sideways and about to fall down on her ass. I sprint over and pluck the bar off of her sagging shoulders. Setting it back down I turn her around by the shoulder and fuck, she's trembling and probably about to cry again. There's quiet laughter from some of the muscle head fuckwads around us and I feel surprisingly defensive of my little weakling. Because, fuck, she's _my _little weakling, not theirs.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. It's my fault, I started you out with too much weight." Not that you can go a lot lower than fucking fifty pounds. Jesus. "Take a deep breath, you're okay." I put a finger under her chin and lift her face up to mine.

She wipes the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand and squares her shoulders, visibly steeling herself. "I'm sorry. I'm so bad at this, and..." she looks off into the distance, and I can tell she's embarrassed. "I'm not used to being bad at things."

I can't help but smile a little. "Welcome to the human race." She's smiling a little now too. I really want to be annoyed at her, but she's just so fucking...cute. Fuck.

Still, I can't take watching her fucking suck at this any longer. "I think that's enough for today. You said you like to run, right? How about we try that?" It's hotter than balls out, of course, but a good cleansing sweat never hurt anyone.

"Thank you, Jane. I promise I'll do better next time." I want to explain to her that she can't study for weight training like it's a fucking exam, but she looks so goddamn earnest about it. Whatever.

I pull my t-shirt off before we head outside, cause, yeah, it's going to be hot as fuck out there. Maura's lips form a little 'O' as she stares at my stomach. So she's not immune to the Rizzoli charms. Or the Rizzoli six-pack. Either way works for me.

We step into the searing heat of mid-day DC, the bright sun overhead making me squint. I point her in the direction of the National Mall and let Maura set the pace. Which I quickly realize was a huge fucking mistake. She's moving with an easy, loping tempo. An afternoon jog pace, the kind of running that gives you time to process your thoughts and fucking feelings.

I run the same way I lift – to fill my head with nothing but pain so I don't have to think or feel anything the fuck at all. This shit bites.

We reach the Washington Monument and circle it, the gleaming brick of our nations' largest phallic symbol brilliant white against the blue sky. We've settled into a decent trot, and I've settled into watching Maura's teensy little shorts creep higher and higher up the back of her legs. Her gait is smooth and easy, arms and legs pumping seamlessly and her ponytail swishing back and forth. Her body looks at peace.

Running like this reminds me of places and moments I work very, very hard not to think about. Summer evenings running along the Charles River, too fucking childlike or blind to realize someone was watching me, stalking me. Dreams where I'm running as fucking fast as I can but it's not fast enough because I'm too fucking weak, too fucking useless and he pounces on me and I can't push him off. He's a sick perverted old man and I'm too fucking pathetic to fight him off.

God fucking dammit.

I curl my hands into tight fists, let my fingers dig into the scars on my palms. Speeding up I move to pass Maura and she smiles, easily matching my pace. Side by side we run down the shady dirt trail that lines the side of the reflecting pool, limbs of huge leafy elm trees spread out above us like a canopy.

"It's so beautiful here," she says, and I guess it is. Sunlight comes through the branches in glowing dapples that land on her hair, her face, her back and she looks more beautiful here, in this moment, than I want to admit. We reach the base of the Lincoln Memorial, and she turns to me with a bit of deviousness firing from those big wide eyes. "Race you."

I answer by taking off, charging up the white marble steps. I hear her laughing behind me and then she's a blur, passing me. What the fuck? I duck my head and charge like a fucking raging bull, because no way is Maura fucking Isles schooling me.

I'm too fucking wrecked at the top to see if I beat her or not. But since she's laughing and barely breathing hard and I'm about to pass out, yeah, she fucking crushed me. "Fu- I mean, wow, Maura, you've been holding out on me," I say between heaving breathes. "You should have warned me you could run like that." I flop out on the top step and let myself fall back onto my elbows, sucking down gulps of steamy air. Fuck, I'd kill for a bottle of water right now.

She sits down next to me and shrugs, nonchalant about her victory. "I like running. It relaxes me." Of course it does. "I started running when I was a young girl to lose myself. I'd just take off in a random direction and go, until I couldn't tell where I was anymore and I couldn't keep going. Until I felt free."

Well, fuck. What the hell did baby Maura have to run from? Maybe she hasn't led such a charmed existence after all. I know she didn't have friends and shit but that's not exactly run-yourself-into-the-ground type pain. I look at her curiously but for once her face doesn't give anything away.

"That probably sounds crazy," she says, trying to laugh it off. "Nevermind. When did you start weight training?"

Hoyt above me, utterly nonreactive to the kick of my legs against his. Holding me down like I'm nothing, an ant he's going to crush under his shoe. His hand holding mine down on the floor, spread out and open for him. His scalpel sliding through my flesh like butter. His fingers pawing at the button fly of my pants.

"A few years ago. When I moved to DC." She's about to ask me more questions so I force myself back onto my feet. "We should get back to the office, we've been gone for a while now." Not that anyone will fucking miss me.

My head is spinning, cloudy from more than the exertion. A light breeze burns the salty sweat onto my face and I revel in the sting. We move at the same pace, in sync, and I find myself wondering if maybe she's not just as fucked up as I am, in her own weird way. In her own really, really fucking weird way. Underneath all that fucking sunshine and optimism Maura could be hiding some serious pain.

Or not. What the fuck ever.

She's quiet the rest of the way back, the only sounds around us coming from her sneakers on the pavement and her light breaths, and of course the fucking hoards of tourists around us. I block them out and focus on her, her graceful flow of arms and legs and what the fuck is wrong with me? Maura is not actually my friend, and she can't actually be my fuckbuddy. This is strictly business.

By the time we get back to the locker room in JEH my body is mostly back to normal, even though my throat feels like it's been rubbed raw with sandpaper. It's my mind that's still really fucking out of it. Equilibrium lost, axis tilted. Fucking snap out of it, Rizzoli.

Maura's stripping and come on, there's no way I'm not going to look. Discreetly of course. I peek up from untying my shoes and see pale skin flushed a pretty shade of pink. A lot of skin. I know it's really fucked up to stare at her in the locker room like this. Ask how many fucks I give.

She's not exactly modest, anyway. Towel slung over her shoulder, Maura walks buck-ass naked towards the showers. Fucking christ, that ass is unreal. It curves out from that nipped in little waist and fuck, I just want to grab it. In seconds she's disappeared behind a shower curtain and I shake my head to clear the Maura-haze that's come over me. Why the fuck is she getting to me so much? Yeah, she's fucking hot, but I've nailed chicks that look like Victoria's Secret models before and not felt like this. Appreciative and horny, yeah, but not like a fucking puddle of lust.

I run my own shower cold.

* * *

My dream starts out the same. I'm running as fast as I can but barely moving. He's behind me, I can feel him just inches behind me, and he's laughing. Keep running, Janie. I like it when you fight, Janie.

I know I'm dreaming but it doesn't matter, I can't wake up. I'm stuck here with him and he knows it, he loves it. He grabs a chunk of my hair and pulls me back, and I can't actually feel the pain of it in my dream but the fear, the fear is coursing through me like a fire. None of this has ever actually happened but it doesn't matter. It's happening now.

He pulls me down to the ground by my hair and I'm on my knees, begging. I know exactly what's going to happen to me and there's nothing I can do about it. Nothing. The space around us is empty, complete blackness and there's nothing here in this world except for him and me and my fear.

Until it morphs, the watery dream world sliding around and reconfiguring. There's no one's hand in my hair, no one is holding me down. But my hand is clutching something, someone else. Golden blonde hair, shiny and curly and perfect, clasped tight in my fist like a leash and I'm hurting her. She's naked on the floor at my feet looking up at me, eyes brimming with tears but she's not afraid. You won't hurt me, Jane. I trust you.

Hoyt's still here but now he's standing off to the side, watching us. Laughing. She trusts you, Janie. Show her what we do to people who trust us.

I arrange her limbs, put her on her hand and knees on the dirt floor. There's a whip in my hand, long and black and heavy. It snaps and she screams but doesn't move. I'm hitting her again, and again, and again, turning her perfect white skin pink then red then bloody. She screams and screams and then she's sobbing but she never moves. Her blood spatters onto my face and Hoyt is laughing. My hand is moving, snapping the whip over and over, beating her until she finally goes quiet and collapses face down onto the floor.

Take what's yours, Janie. You know you want it. Her blood is on my face, warm and viscous and I'm burning, pulsing heat blazing between my legs. I know what he wants me to do, what I'm going to do, and this has to be a dream. This can't actually be happening. I know exactly what I'm about to do and there's nothing, absolutely nothing I can do to stop it.

I bend down over her and reach between her legs. She's whimpering and she's wet and I push a finger into her. Please, Jane. Please, and I can't tell if she's begging me to stop or keep going. I trust you, Jane.

I wake up screaming.

**A/N: ::crickets:: Anybody still with me?**


	5. Razor Sharp, Razor Clean

Chapter 5 – Razor Sharp, Razor Clean

**A/N: See chapter one for disclaimers and warnings. Sex later, cursing and such now. **

"She's not going to put out on the first date." I don't know why I feel the need to tell Dean this, but I do. I'm perched on the edge of his desk, a foot balanced on the arm of his chair.

Dean leans back, looking smug as always. "Why Agent Rizzoli, I do believe you have a little crush on our pretty young friend. How sweet."

He's taking her to a play tomorrow night, something suitably obscure and vaguely erotic. It was all she could talk about this morning. Fuck me.

"Please, she's a fucking child. I'm just warning you that this bet isn't going to be as easy as you think." I push him away a bit with my foot, and he smirks. "Maura and I, we've gotten–" I pause, let it hang in the air. "Close."

Being Maura's fake best friend definitely comes with perks. Saturday night I actually slept in her guest bedroom instead of on the couch. I'd never waste the fuck-loads of money that crazy ass mattress must have cost, but it did feel fucking awesome. Having her fetch me croissants in the morning wasn't awful either.

"Your point being?" He sits up abruptly and shoves my foot away.

"The point being that she's not going to jump into bed with you without running it by her best friend."

He twirls a pen through his fingers, considering. "But her best friend isn't allowed to say anything about me."

I adjust myself on the desk, leaning forward to get in his face. "I'm not allowed to tell her you're a creepy mother-fucking asshole. Doesn't mean I can't tell her not to sleep with you."

"Fair point. But if I find out that you've said anything, let's see, how should I put this..." he fiddles some more with that fucking pen. "Derogatory. Say anything derogatory about me and you lose by default." He leans in even closer, so I can see the individual pores and faint lines under his eyes. "Don't worry, Jane, you're going to like losing. You get to watch me fuck your little friend, and then the things I'm going to do to you, well," he pauses, smirks, "I'm going to make your body feel things you didn't even know were possible."

Gag me. "You mean like the sensation of projectile vomiting during intercourse?"

He laughs, that fucking smug little laugh. "You don't know what you're missing. All those muffs you've been diving into, when's the last time anyone actually got you off?"

Way, way too fucking long, but he doesn't have to fucking know that. "You're just jealous I get more snatch than you. I hope you're keeping that bike of yours in mint condition for me. It's gonna look great under my ass."

"And what a fine ass it is," he says smoothly. "So tell me, what have you and Maura gotten up to during these sleepovers of yours? Pillow fights in bras and panties?"

"A lady never tells," I say, batting my eyelashes.

"Good thing you're not a lady, then. I bet you're just dying to fuck her, aren't you?" He's speaking softly, but not softly enough for this kind of shit in the office.

"Knock it the fuck off, Dean."

He leans back again, and he's moved close enough towards me that when he raises a leg onto the desk it rests between my spread thighs. "I don't care what you do with her. Have at it. There's plenty to go around."

I shove his shoe away with a hard push, sending his chair backwards. "You're fucking disgusting, you know that?"

"Tell me, has she spilled her guts to you yet? Told you that you're the best friend she's ever had?"

She doesn't need to. It's written all over her fucking face.

I look over to Maura's corner and there she is, pressed up close to her monitor as always. She's absently twirling a tight curl of hair at the back of her neck.

"Don't tell me you're going soft. We are who we are, Rizzoli. Embrace it." Dean follows my gaze, and if it was anyone but Maura I'd worry that she'd feel the two sets of eyes fixed onto her back. "She is a pretty little thing, and you would definitely be striking together. Be sure to take some video for me if you decide to partake."

Of course now all I can fucking think about is me on top of Maura, my hands wrapped tightly through her hair, pulling her head back to expose that long pale neck, sucking under her ear until she moans and arches up against me and - fuck.

"You're a little flushed there Agent," he says, getting up. "Now if you'll excuse me, I promised Maura we'd have lunch together today."

"That sounds just dandy," I say, sliding off the desk. "I think I'll join you. I'm sure Maura would love for her best friend to be there as well."

* * *

Dean suggests we 'enjoy the city' during our lunch break, so we walk a couple of blocks over to a froufy café that serves fucking whole grains and free range chicken, raised lovingly by hand and blah blah fucking blah killed with an ax and served. Maura seems to like it though. She's explaining something about the benefits of fucking flax seeds and Dean is giving his best take on looking fucking enraptured.

Maura wants to sit outside since it's 'such a nice day.' I swear she's trying to kill me, it's gotta be eighty fucking degrees in the shade. There's a light breeze and the air isn't quite as chokingly thick as usual, so it's almost tolerable. Dean and I almost crash into each other trying to sit next to her but it's moot, Maura's filled the seat beside her with her fucking giant handbag. God forbid it touch the fucking ground.

"So Maura, how's your project coming along?" Dean asks.

She is, of course, fucking delighted to talk about her beloved algorithms. "Very well! I've finished the calibration process and started running training data through the support vector machine. It will take several more days to finish building the classifier, but-"

Dean's getting into it with her, and I'm pretty sure he's been fucking practicing his Maura-speak because he's talking about kernel functions like he's knows what the fuck they are.

I tune out the science shit and watch her talk. Her hands are animated, circling in fast excited movements that mirror the expression on her face. I've been outside five fucking minutes and I can already feel sweat beading on my face and my shirt sticking to my back but she looks untouched by the heat, skin as fucking smooth and perfect as ever. Maura's body is a mystery to me – how is it possible that her hair is always just so, her skin looks permanently airbrushed and she always smells nice? It's fucking weird.

"I hear you and Jane have been spending a lot of time together," Dean says. "Has she told you about her carpet collection yet?"

I whip around so fast the piece of cruelty-free meat on my fork flies off and lands halfway across the table. What the fuck did he just say?

"No!" Maura says. "What an interesting hobby Jane, how did you get into it?"

I don't have a fucking clue what to say, but Dean doesn't give me a chance. "She started collecting when she moved down here. I'm surprised she didn't tell you about it, she's a very avid collector. Spends nearly all her weekends working on it, devouring any bit of rug she can find." He is completely straight-faced, which I have to give him props for. Even if he is a fucking asshole.

"I'm not sure I understand," Maura says. "Do you seek out specific textiles? Antiques?"

Antique rug munching; now there's an unnecessary mental image. "Um, no, I like all kinds. You know, different colors, styles." I consider my recent conquests. Yep, plenty of variety. "But I prefer short trim. Not a fan of the shag rug."

Dean chokes on his sandwich. Point Rizzoli.

"Oh..." Maura's brow is furrowed. "That must limit your collection, so many rugs have longer lengths."

She's not wrong.

"What sort of carpet do you prefer, Maura?" Dean asks. He rests a hand on my thigh, giving it a light squeeze.

"Well," she says, "I admit I haven't given it much thought, beyond color and plushness. In general, I prefer hardwood. Are you okay Jane?"

I'm fine, just about to fucking lose it. "Sure, sure. I like a good hardwood too, now and again. Nice to have something firm for a change." I clap a hand over Dean's and squeeze hard. "Don't you agree, Dean?"

"No. Strict carpet man myself."

"How interesting," Maura says. "I wouldn't have imagined either of you would take such an interest in flooring. Will you show me your collection sometime Jane?"

"Oh I don't think she will," Dean answers for me. "Jane keeps her hobby very close to the chest. I've been trying to get her to share it with me for years now, but she's very protective of her carpets."

Fucking hell, I need to change the subject before he starts talking about what a cunning linguist I am.

"Right. So this system you're working on Maura." Dean pulls his hand out from under mine. "When it works, you'll be able to trace any sample back to a particular supply, right?" She nods. "So theoretically, you could take someone's drug sample and figure out where their drugs came from?" I turn my head at Dean and he's smirking, amused.

"Yes, I suppose you could, depending on the contents of the drug sample." Maura's got her head tilted up a bit and I can see her silently working through the problem. "A blood test would be the easiest to extract a usable sample from, but those are rarely performed. That's not an application of the research I've considered, how would you use those results?" She sounds genuinely interested, cause, yeah, Maura's fucking interested in everything.

I drag the tip of my shoe up Dean's calf. "I can think of a lot of uses for it. Say, for example, you've got seized drugs that are disappearing. You could find the crooked cop that's dipping into the evidence."

Maura looks stricken. "Oh no, does that really happen?"

"All the time. Right Dean?"

His expression is impassive, completely deadpan, but he's shoving his leg hard against mine in a bizarre sort of tug-of-war. "Sadly yes, it has been known to happen. Most cops, and agents for that matter, are entirely above board. But there are always some bad apples in the bunch, unscrupulous people who don't deserve the power they've been given." He cocks his head and looks at me. "Damaged people."

I kick out sharply, smacking his leg off of mine, and he jumps a bit in his chair. Damaged my ass, at least I'm not a fucking drug addict and part-time psychopath.

Maura frowns. "But why would someone like that go into law enforcement? I don't understand why a person would go into the field of upholding the law if they intend to break it themselves." She pauses, considering her own words. "Oh, I see. From that position of authority a criminal could significantly lower their risk of detection and prosecution. What a disheartening idea."

Someone give the girl a fucking medal. Jesus fucking Christ.

Dean leans in, catching and holding Maura in his gaze. "Maura, have you ever been around someone who you just knew, without any hard evidence, was guilty? A bad seed, if you will, through and through?"

She freezes for a moment in thought, the breeze swirling her curls gently around her face. "I...I'm not sure I understand the question. I've never been in a position to assess an individual's guilt or innocence."

Where the fuck is he going with this?

"I mean morally guilty, Maura. People that would hurt you and never think twice about it. Evil, to put it bluntly. People like that, you can sense them. They make the hair on the back of your neck stand up." He's staring at her, gauging her response, and it's making the hair on the back of _my_ fucking neck stand up.

"No, I don't think I've ever experienced that." She's biting her lip, probably worried that this is the wrong answer on whatever fucked up test Dean is administering.

It's the perfect answer. "Then you need to be more aware, Maura. Pay attention to the people around you. You're a kind, caring person and people will try and take advantage of that. Keep your guard up."

Maura laughs nervously and Dean moves to put a comforting hand on her arm.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you, I just worry. You're a beautiful woman, inside and out, and I'd hate to see you get hurt."

Says the man who wants to fuck her up the ass so he can fuck me. This is so fucking wrong

"Well, I have you and Jane to protect me, right?" She's looking at me with those big shining eyes and I feel my lunch coming back up in my throat. She trusts you, Janie.

"Yeah, Maura," I answer and my voice is a notch rougher than usual. "You've got us."

Dean's grinning and he knows, he fucking knows what this is doing to me. "Jane and I won't let anything happen to you."

The wind kicks up, interrupting this fucking creepy conversation and sending Maura's napkin sailing off the table onto the sidewalk. We both jump up to get it but Dean is faster, chasing after and grabbing it on the ground near her feet. She smiles and thanks him demurely and he goes inside to get her another. Gag me.

"Jane, you're not, um, involved with Agent Dean, are you?" She's looking at me hopefully, and fuck, why does she have to be so fucking dense?

"Nope. Just friends."

Maura looks relieved. "Oh good, I certainly don't want to put myself in the middle of something. I'm not very good at reading these situations, but I think Gabriel might consider the play tomorrow night to be a date."

"That's entirely possible." Maybe when he tries to fucking grope her at intermission she'll be sure. That oughta be enough hard fucking evidence for her.

Dean comes back with a fresh napkin and everyone's all smiles. Mine is so wide and fake that it hurts my face.

* * *

It's either very late or very early, depending on how you look at it. Either way it's very fucking something, and I'm not sleeping. Fuck sleep anyway, it's not like it ever makes me feel rested.

The sun's just coming up and it's still cool outside. Goosebumps prickle my arms as I head off, running down the empty sidewalk. Actual running, not that fucking long distance shit that Maura likes. We ran for an hour yesterday and she spent half of it trying to fucking change my stride, and of course she was right, it did feel better. Landing on the front of my foot and kicking my legs back high behind me, it felt easy. But I don't want it to feel fucking easy this morning, I want to feel empty.

I'm pounding down hard, beating the concrete with my feet and slamming my arms back and forth, punching the air.

I don't want to fucking care about anything. I don't want to fucking feel anything.

I don't want to fucking care about Maura.

The blocks of monotone office buildings and high-rise apartments whip past me, and there's nothing here besides white buildings and gray skies. My breath is coming faster, my feet and legs going numb beneath me.

My body is begging me to stop. I can hear my blood pulsing, my heart hammering, harsh breaths against the back of my throat whipping it raw. Run fucking faster.

The Maura who smiles up at me with happy, innocent eyes blurs with the Maura in my dreams that I beat bloody night after night. Run fucking faster.

My foot catches on an uneven patch of sidewalk and for a moment I'm airborne, the sky tilting and the ground rushing up to meet me and then I'm down. For a moment I lay stunned and then the pain snaps me out of it, stinging wetness on my knees and a sharp ache through my elbows and forearms. I roll myself over and there's blood on my palms, fresh scratches ringing old scars. I lay there, staring up at the colorless sky, and laugh.

**A/N: Thanks to the brilliant Conoro28 for the beta. And thanks to all of you who have reviewed/commented so far, it means a lot. **


	6. Sweet Like Sugar Venom

Chapter 6 – Sweet like Sugar Venom

**A/N: See chapter one for disclaimers and warnings. Sex later, cursing and such now.** **For this chapter in particular: TRIGGER warning for self-harm.**

I knew this was a fucking bad idea. I knew, dammit, and I'm still here, because of fucking Maura. I'm starting to feel like she's the one doing a mind-fuck on me instead of the other way around, because instead of a session of weightlifting-for-weaklings or running or even fucking yoga we're here, on the basketball court in the JEH gym, doing zumba.

Fucking zumba.

As bad as I thought it would be, it's fucking worse. Jazzercise shit I could grit my teeth and get through, but this is fucking ridiculous. A bunch of dumpy middle-aged women, Ian fucking Faulkner and Maura are copying a crazy perky woman in a vaguely obscene dance routine. I swear, if they slowed it the fuck down a bit and added poles we'd be in a fucking strip club.

Maura saw the poster for it in the locker room and wouldn't shut the fuck up about it until I promised to go. I backed down way too fucking easily, maybe Dean's right about me going soft. I'm finding it way too fucking hard to say no to that puppy-dog face she makes when she's sad.

"You in the back! Come on, drop it low!"

If Maura wasn't dancing her fucking ass off right beside me I'd give Ms. Perky the finger. I settle for glaring and make another half-assed attempt to follow along.

I glance over at Maura and she gives me an encouraging smile while she does some sort of pelvic thrust thing that is really fucking distracting. And then she turns and bends, shoving her ass in my face. How the fuck did everyone know they were supposed to turn? Whatever, Maura is shaking her ass at me like a maraca. Maybe zumba isn't so awful after all.

Except then everyone turns again and Maura, along with her ass, is facing the opposite side of the gym than I am. "This way Jane!" Maura yells over the thumping music. The loose hairs at the sides of her ponytail are bouncing along with her as she does this shoulder scooping thing, bent halfway over and wriggling her body around so smoothly it's as if she's boneless.

My body, meanwhile, is moving about as easily as my old Honda handled on snowy Boston streets. Fucking jerking back and forth and sliding around like an idiot. Me, not the car. It wasn't the car's fault it was old and crappy.

By the time I yank myself around everyone's turned again and Maura nearly slams into me. Fucking hell.

"It's a pattern, Jane," she yells as she moves back away from me, her hips leading the motion with a deep, undulating twist. "Observe the four-count and repeat it. See?"

All I see is her thighs, her ass, her tits – oh my fucking god, her tits. She's doing this chest-pumping thing that is fucking ridiculous but it makes her boobs jiggle even under what looks like a seriously fucking binding sports bra.

It shouldn't surprise me that Maura is good at this. She's always graceful, her movements permanently easy and polished, whether its ducking around tourists on the sidewalks or clicking down the labyrinth JEH corridors on five inch heels. Maura doesn't walk, she fucking floats.

So no, it's not fucking surprising that she can dance. I could picture her pirouetting or fucking waltzing, no problem. But this, this I would never have guessed. She's completely going for it, throwing her whole body into the motions, hips whirling, ass pumping, arms thrown to the sky. Or to the ceiling lights of the gym. Whatever. It looks like she's been doing this her whole fucking life, but she told me she'd never tried it before and I don't think Maura has it in her to lie.

The song has changed to something even fucking faster, and now everyone is doing some bizarre ass footwork that makes them look like rejects from A Chorus Line. On meth. I grapevine back and forth in more or less the same direction as everyone else, which seems to appease Maura and the cheer-Nazi instructor. She smiles at me and continues swinging her arms around like her life depends on it.

I got all the details on her little play date with Dean this morning. I didn't even have to ask; she couldn't wait to give me the blow by blow. Apparently Dean was a real fucking gentleman. Held the doors open, brought her flowers, bought her dinner, the works. At least from Maura's retelling he kept his hands to himself. With the exception of the goodnight kiss, which Maura described as "giving her the shivers." Fucking gag me.

She's going out with him again this weekend. She hasn't asked for my opinion on anything to do with him, which was sort of my whole fucking strategy. I have got to come up with something to fucking distract her.

We're doing some sort of run and jump thing now that is fucking retarded, but a jumping Maura is a boob-bouncing Maura, so I'm pretty okay with it.

Dean's being cagey about his game plan, and it's really fucking annoying that I don't know when he's going in for the kill. I'm guessing he's going to go for straight up boring sex first, get her believing he's in love with her and all the mushy fucking hearts and flowers shit, and then work his way around to her ass. That's how I'd do it.

I'm going in the wrong direction again or something because Ian crashes right into me – or did I crash into him? What the fuck ever, we bounce off each other like bumper cars and he and Maura share a fucking laugh at my expense. What is Ian doing at a fucking zumba class anyway? Friggin hippy do-gooders.

Even though this is a shitty excuse for a workout all of the fucking jumping is making me sweat, and it's rolling off me like I'm a pro-baller. The floor is getting slick beneath me, gym shoes skidding and squeaking like an elementary school dodge ball game and I really don't want to fall and make a huge fucking ass out of myself.

"Alright everybody!" The fucking perky chick is still smiling her pasted on smile. "Take five, get some water, and let's keep moving moving moving!" I'd like to move her crazy ass into next week.

"Whew!" Maura is grinning hugely, a delicate sheen of sweat making her bright skin glow even brighter. "This is quite a rush. Are you having fun Jane?"

Oh yeah, I'm having the fucking time of my life. "Yep, it sure is something. I don't think I've gotten the hang of it yet." In case she hadn't noticed. Right. "Are you sure you've never done this before? Where did you learn to move like that?"

"I agree," Ian says, barging into the conversation. Jerk. "Very impressive for a first-timer, I would never have guessed."

Maura looks a little embarrassed, but pleased. "Thank you. I trained in classical ballet and I'm passable at most forms of ballroom dance-" I fucking knew it. "-But I've never tried something like this before. There are elements I recognize from salsa and meringue, but the speed and sheer athleticism, it was so invigorating!"

Ian is smiling at her like she's the cutest thing he's ever seen. Can't really blame him, she is fucking adorable. "Jane, would you do me the pleasure of introducing me to your lovely friend?"

Who fucking talks like that? "Ian, meet Maura," I say. "Maura, meet Ian." I resist adding "ta da" at the end.

They shake hands and grin at each other. Ugh. Maura's halfway through explaining what she's doing at the Bureau when the shrieking harpy calls us back to Stripper 101. Maura stripping, now that would make this class interesting.

Ian's maneuvered himself so he's standing next to Maura, and they're passing glances at each other as they writhe and hop. It occurs to me that Maura and Ian make a natural pairing – they're both overeducated, fucking annoying idealists.

Maura's smiling widely at him while he twirls his arms around like a fucking lunatic, and it also occurs to me that she might find Ian distracting. The fucking hippy might be useful after all.

* * *

It's yet another fucking movie night at Maura's. The hours I'm logging on this bet, I could have taken a second job and bought my own damn motorcycle. I can't think of another job that would come with so much free food, though.

"Jane, can I ask you something?" she says, all big eyes and pursed lips.

This doesn't seem to be a rhetorical question, so I answer her. "Sure, ask whatever you want. I'm an open book."

She twists to look at me head on, frowning slightly. "That's just it. I've been thinking about it and I realized how much you know about me – my past, my work, even my recent dates. It's clear to me now that I know almost nothing about you."

Well, fuck. I'm pretty good at bullshitting, but the more details I give the harder it'll be to keep the lies straight. Hopefully we can keep this light.

"Okay, what do you want to know?" I say, leaning over to give her knee a comforting pat. It's a move I've learned will always get her to relax and smile that soft little smile she has. The smile that says, Jane's here so everything will be okay. I am really fucking good at bullshitting. "I haven't been on any dates recently, in case you were curious."

She laughs a little. "Well, now I feel silly. I don't have any particular questions, I just..." she pauses and looks me in the eye, her gaze piercing in its rawness. "Tell me about yourself. Where are you from? How did you end up becoming an FBI agent?"

Fuck. I guess this had to come out eventually. "Boston," I say, trying to pass it off as casual. I see her mouth open in surprise and rush to continue before she can say anything. "I know. I should have told you, but it's not something I like to talk about. I live here now, this is my home."

I don't have a fucking home. I'm not sure I have a fucking life, either, at least not one that matters a whole hell of a lot.

Maura looks stuck somewhere between upset and confused. "How long have you lived here?"

Some days I think I've lived here forever. My life before DC is hazy, a badly dubbed VHS movie with the screen covered in vaseline. The only images that pop are ones that I would do anything to erase. "Three years," I say.

"Oh," she says, considering. "That's not very long. Which part of Boston are you from?"

"I told you I don't want to talk about it," I snap. Too harsh, she looks as wounded as if I'd slapped her in the face. "I'm sorry," I say, taking a few calming breaths and doing the knee pat move again. "I know you've shared a lot with me. Boston is just...it's not that I don't want to talk about it with you, it's that I can't talk about it at all. Do you understand?"

My last night in Boston, sitting on the floor in the middle of my apartment. Alone. A locked door to keep Ma and my partner and everyone else the fuck out. My hands still bandaged, not the fucking gauze mittens they sent me home from the hospital in but still enough cotton and tape that it's hard to hold the blade in my hands. The tiny, sharp blade from an X-acto knife I had on my desk for years. A blade forgotten about until clasped clumsily in taped hands, on the floor, on the last day of my life. Held against an upturned wrist, tracing the blue veins that pop slightly from the skin there, a topographical map of blood and death. Pressing the tip against a small mountain of sea blue. Just to see what would happen.

Maura nods. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry. I've never been good at recognizing boundaries in social interactions. I won't ask you about it again."

The press of the blade and the blue mountain buckles but holds, the pressure bringing only the slightest of stings. Press harder.

"If you ever decide to talk about it, Jane, I could listen. Isn't that what friends do?"

Press harder, sting sharper, such a fucking delicate veil of skin but it won't fucking give. The knife clattering as it bounces across the floor, a dull, fucking useless blade.

"Yeah, that's right," I say, willing myself to breath fucking normally. "I guess I'm not so much of an open book after all. But I promise, you know all that's worth knowing about me."

She looks unconvinced, because she's not a complete fucking moron. "I understand having secrets," she says. "I haven't known anyone I trusted to share mine with." Don't say it Maura, don't fucking say it. "Before you. I feel safe with you. I hope you'll feel safe with me, one day."

Why why _why_ would she fucking trust me like that? What have I possibly done to earn it? She doesn't even know who the fuck I am.

"It is not like me to get this emotionally involved with other people," she says, anxiously twisting the blanket in her lap. "I know it's a bit silly, considering I'll only be here for a few months. But Washington and Bo-" she pauses, eyes snapping to mine. "Washington and where I normally live aren't very far apart. We could stay in touch very easily."

She looks so hopeful it fucking hurts. "Of course, yeah."

Maura smiles. "The question of Gabriel is another matter entirely. It doesn't make good sense to conduct a romantic relationship in two different cities."

"Nope. Can't say that it does." Minus ten points, Dean. Suck on that.

"Still," she says, her gaze resting in some distant corner of the room. "He is very sweet. I'm not sure I've ever been on a date before where a man listened to everything I had to say as though it wasn't a bother, and then didn't act as though it were his right to have sex with me."

Aaaaand you still haven't. Oops. "Uh huh. But like you said, you won't be here very long. You could just enjoy the summer instead, with me." She grins at this and ducks her head, letting a curly golden lock of hair hang over her face like a sheath. "We can have a great time, just us."

_It's just us down here, Janie. Just you and me, and soon all you'll be is blood and bone._

Thunder cracks, a loud grumble rolling in waves and Maura jumps in surprise. "Oh, my. I wasn't expecting a storm tonight. That sounded close." She gets up and moves to the window, and I see a long jagged streak of white snake through the sky over her head.

The thunder growls again and yes the storm is fucking close, almost on top of us. Rain is pelting Maura's historic clapboard house now, pinging off the wood with accusatory slaps. "Let's go outside," she says.

She's still at the window with her back to me, but I'm pretty fucking sure I heard her right. "Maura, it's raining out there. I'm not a weather expert or anything, but I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to go outside in a thunderstorm."

But she's already halfway out the door, not even looking back to see if I'm following her. Jesus fucking Christ.

I chase after her, jamming my fucking shoes back on and half-hopping out the door. Where it is, as I so accurately predicted, raining. Raining fucking hard. It's like someone's standing off to the side throwing buckets of fucking water onto me.

I squint through it and there she is, in the middle of the fucking street, head thrown back to the sky. "Maura!" She doesn't move. "Come on, Maura, this is nuts! Come back inside!"

She's laughing now, shaking her wet hair side to side and running her hands through it. Lightening splits the sky again and she's lit up, wet and loose and smiling.

"Let's run, Jane," she yells.

"Yes, let's run back inside." I'm soaked through to my underwear, rain rolling down my back like a cold river.

"No," she says, and she's as happy as I've ever seen her. "Let's run." She takes off, in her pajama pants and slip-on shoes, running down the middle of the street like a fucking lunatic.

Again I'm chasing after her, my feet splashing in what's become one giant fucking puddle and my eyes blurred with with fucking wet hair and rain. She lets me catch up to her before speeding up, kicking into a full out sprint. I've never seen her go this fucking fast before.

The sensation of flying is heightened from the rush of water in my face, my feet scraping and barely holding onto the pavement, a system just on the verge of collapse. It feels fucking amazing.

After a few blocks she stops, sinking to her knees, and I pull up beside her. "You're a little crazy, you know that Dr. Isles?"

I'm panting and I swear any other time she'd miss the sarcasm and think I was fucking teasing her or something but tonight she either gets it or doesn't care. "I love this," she says, rising back up. "I always have."

"So you won't eat raw eggs or unpasteurized cheese, but hanging out under trees in a thunderstorm is okay?" Thunder booms again, backing up my point.

She starts walking back towards the house. "I know it's dangerous. Maybe that's why I like it. Storms are powerful, and fundamentally out of my control. I spend so much of my life trying to keep order. It wears me out." She turns to look at me, and even through the curtain of rain I can see the seriousness on her face, how much she needs to me understand this. "I can't control the storm. No one can. So I give myself over to it."

I don't remember the last time I felt in control of fucking anything. Except maybe Maura's emotions, which I fucking manipulate as easily as a puppeteer.

"Let's go one more time," she says, and takes off running full out into the purple-black night.

**A/N: Eeep. Sorry for the delay, real life has been a bitch. Thanks for the comments and reviews, they've seriously kept me going. And as always, thanks to Conoro28 for being such a badass beta. **


	7. Get You Dancing with the Devil

Chapter 7 – Get You Dancing with the Devil

**A/N: See chapter one for warnings and disclaimers. **

_Maura is on her back, soft tumbles of spun-gold curls ringing her face like a halo. The sleeping fairy-tale princess, moon-pale skin and blood-red lips, eyes open but unseeing. _

_Her eyes are open but unseeing and her body doesn't move an inch, a smidge, a pinch when Dean leans over her. His back is to me and all I can see is his mass, the dark bulk of his shadow as it spreads over Maura. _

_She's just lying there and I know she's awake, I know it but she's not moving and I can't move. We're both planted in place and he's over her, touching her, pressing her down. He yanks her hair and her head rises up and she's looking through me, right through me, unseeing. _

I win, Jane.

* * *

"It's nothing, I promise. Agent Dean just surprised me," Maura says, rubbing the finger shaped bruise on her wrist.

Apparently we're back to Agent Dean now instead of all that fucking Gabriel crap. Whatever we're calling him, I'm going to fucking kill him. "He bruised you Maura, that's not nothing. That," I say, pointing to her wrist, "is not acceptable! I'm going to get his badge for this."

I'm launching myself off the couch and towards the door when Maura stops me with a hand on my arm and a look of panic on her face. "Please, Jane, calm down! He didn't mean to hurt me." Her tone is earnest but she's not quite meeting my eye. "He reached for me and I wasn't expecting it, I jerked away and his grip tightened. It was just an accident."

Sure, because people grab each other's wrists tight enough to bruise by accident all the damn time. She can be so fucking stupid sometimes and it drives me fucking insane.

Maura's still looking up at me, hand still stinging on my arm. "I don't want him to get into trouble. He's a good man, and I know you and him are good friends. Please don't let a meaningless incident ruin everything."

Dean and I, we are good friends, aren't we? In some fucked up way. A few weeks ago I knew he was a fucking asshole but he was still the closest person in my life, the only person I said more than three words to on any given day. He's never been a 'good man' but he was no worse than me. I didn't judge him, he didn't judge me.

And now I want to rip his fucking face off because he hurt her. I am fucking losing it. The whole plan was to hurt her.

"Fine." I sink back down on the couch. She visibly relaxes, and as she pulls her arm back I stare at the bruise. I've probably left ones just like that, my fingers sunk deep into some random girl's skin.

"He was very apologetic. I feel a bit badly for him, actually, he clearly intended the evening to go in another direction."

My eyes snap up to hers. "What's that supposed to mean?" It comes out harsher than I intended, but she doesn't seem to notice.

"Well, I've told you before that I'm not good at understanding social cues," she sighs. "But in this case I'm fairly certain. He engaged in significantly more physical contact than on our previous dates, and he was quite persistent in seeking an invitation home with me."

The idea of him groping her, hairy fingers on smooth pale skin, is enough to make my face feel hot with anger. "So, you're not interested in him?" I ask, trying to breathe normally.

Her eyes don't meet mine. "I'm not sure. I don't foresee an extended relationship with him, no. But I do have...needs."

Oh fuck no. "You had better not be talking about what I think you're talking about."

She rears on me, eyes flashing with anger. "And why not, exactly? What is so wrong about a woman admitting her sexual needs? It's a biological imperative, I have absolutely nothing to be ashamed about!"

"Whoa, calm down, I didn't mean it like that," I say, holding my hands up in surrender. Despite her anger, I can see the embarrassment crawling across her features. I can read her shame in the way she's clutching her hands across her chest like that's the only thing keeping her guts inside. Interesting. "I'm not questioning your standing as a liberated woman, alright? I just...don't want to see you use Dean to meet those needs."

That's a stroke of genius right there, Rizzoli. Don't have sex with Dean, Maura; it's not right to use him that way. But seriously, was she really going to fuck him just to get laid? It's not like I'm in a position to judge or anything, but I didn't expect that from her. She seems so damn proper, it's hard to imagine her having sex at all. Except...no, yeah, it's pretty easy.

"I'm sorry, I overreacted. It's a sensitive subject." She's still clutching herself tightly, and it looks like her prudish side is winning out. She's fucking mortified. "Despite growing up abroad, I was raised with a typical American puritanical view on sexual activity. It's something I've been trying to work through these past few years."

I wonder how that growing experience is working out. Knowing Maura she probably drafted out a series of drills and kept a progress chart. I'd fucking kill to see that. "Oh yeah?" I say, feigning only the mildest of interest. "I was raised Catholic, I get the whole guilt thing."

"As an avowed atheist," she says, "I know that it is rationally absurd to hold myself to the standards of a religion I hold no belief in. Despite that, I find it difficult to overcome the collective disgrace we ascribe to women who enjoy sex." She lifts her chin on the word "sex" and the sound of it coming out of her mouth shoots straight through me.

"Umm, right," I say, clearing my throat. "I get it. Needs. Nothing to be ashamed of."

Maura untucks herself from her little cocoon of shame and relaxes back into the couch. "You're right, though, I shouldn't use Gabriel that way. I am certainly capable of supplying myself with orgasms"-the blood rushes from my head to my groin so fast I actually feel dizzy-"but I still yearn for the connection that intercourse with another person provides. There's a demonstrable animal instinct to experience skin on skin."

I do not fucking understand this woman. She was squirming out of her skin a second ago and now she's Dr. Ruth.

"What about you, Jane?" she says, and she's looking at me now with those big pretty eyes and that shiny pretty hair and oh my fucking god.

I swallow. Hard. "What about me?"

"Well, are your needs being met? I've never heard you mention any sexual partners."

I haven't had any in weeks, come to think about it. I've been spending all of my fucking free time with Maura, which doesn't exactly leave a lot of time to troll for pussy. "Uhhh...it's fine. Me and my needs, we're doing just fine."

I can't even remember the last time I actually got off. Why should I get to experience any fucking joy in this life?

Maura looks unconvinced, and I am seriously scared she's going to bring out a textbook on the finer points of masturbation. Except she probably has an even more clinical term for it. Gah. "I promise, it's all good in the hood."

"Alright, then. But if you're ever in need of assistance-" holy mary mother of god "-I've done extensive research on the various designs of vibrators."

Of course she has.

* * *

Needs. Of course I have fucking needs. I'm as much of an animal as Maura, and I'm far less tame.

It's a Wednesday and it's ten minutes to last call, and all that's left are the weakest members of the pack. The ones with nowhere to go, no one to go home to or with. I size them up, watch them stagger and sway on the thin points of their heels. There's not many to choose from, but there's still plenty of variety. Tall and whippet thin, short and stacked, average and more average.

There's one with blond curls the color of my nightmares.

I put my hand on her arm to steady her and she smiles. This close and any sense of illusion shatters, her nose is ski-jump cute, and her eyes are tiny pinched windows that show me nothing and can probably barely see me through her own drunken haze. She'll do just fine.

I run my finger through her curls and she leans into me like a cat, arching for more contact. "Let's get out of here," she whispers in my ear, and I smirk. So easy, this part is always so very fucking easy.

She's giggling and swaying as we walk down the street and I let my hand on her arm drift lower, lower, lower. I'm holding her against me and she's melting into me, sliding into me. It's hot outside, way too fucking hot outside for the middle of the night, but her skin feels cool. My arms drifts lower still and she gasps.

This is very fucking wrong, on so many levels, but I crossed the line of no return years ago. What's one more sin, one more prey.

"Mmmm, you're strong," she moans, responding to the firm press of my hand on her ass. "Tell me what you're going to do to me."

I let myself just look at her curls for a moment, let myself pretend. "I'm not much of a talker."

She giggles, presses her ass back against my hand. Her skin is cold but mine is dripping sweat, slick drops sliding down my back.

We reach her place and I watch her fumble with the keys, watch her hair shine in the porch light. The apartment is cramped, with enough cheap furniture and crap strewn around to suggest roommates. It all reeks of early post-college grime, futons and mod lamps and unframed canvases.

She grabs me by the front of my shirt and pulls me in, pulls my lips to hers. That is not how I fucking roll so I shove her back, shove her down onto the futon and climb on top of her. It's dark but I can see her eyes glint. I hover over her and slide a leg between hers.

This part is always very, very easy. She's writhing beneath me, desperate and wanting. With her clothes off she's all cool pale skin and I take what I want, what's mine. I take her breasts in my hands. I grind my leg between hers and then I take her with my hand. She's moaning, panting a litany of yes, yes, yes. She's dripping wet and tight but cold and this is wrong, all wrong.

I'm burning, so hot it feels like I'll explode. She throws her head back and screams.

"Your turn," she breathes, leaning up and reaching for my pants.

I swat her away but she's persistent and I grab her wrist, hard. "No." I push her back down, push the arm I'm holding back up over her head. She lies still and I push inside her again and it's all so very easy.

After she screams again, I let myself out. I'm still sweating and I'm aching, I need to come so fucking bad. I sink low in the front seat of my car and reach down, circling lightly. I'm sure Maura would have a name for my 'technique.'

Maura.

I grit my teeth and keep circling.

His hand is on my pants, sweaty hairy fingers pawing at the fly.

Cut it the fuck out, Jane, get your shit together.

He's pressing me into the floor and it hurts, it fucking hurts.

Jesus fucking christ I'm so close, just please, I need this.

I'm always here, Janie. You know I'm always here. Hairy fingers over my mouth, the smell of sweat and pain and death.

It fucking hurts, it burns where my finger circles and deeper, deeper. Maura would be hot inside, Maura would burn me in the best way. Maura would melt me down and put me back together again.

My body doesn't work this way anymore.

A sound comes out of me and it's part shriek and part growl, all wounded animal.

Everything fucking hurts.

**A/N: For those of you still with me, thank you! All comments are appreciated. A round of applause to Conoro28 for an excellent beta read on no sleep. **


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